


What She Expected

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Bad Day At The Office, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the time he isn’t at all, but sometimes, when he’s really had enough, Sam’s lover is exactly what she used to imagine he’d be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What She Expected

**Author's Note:**

> Just a one-shot piece of plot-free smut, inspired by the fact that I generally seem to make Malcolm a bit of a gentleman in his private life!

She expected nothing less, but when she heard the vicious snap of key in lock her suspicions of his probable foul mood were categorically confirmed. Pulling herself from her corner chair and tossing aside her book, Sam Cassidy squared her shoulders in time with the slam of the front door that seemed to make the whole house shiver. It hadn’t been a good day, what with the Education Secretary floundering like a freshly-caught cod while being heckled during his speech at the NUT Conference. Then the PM had gone on _Question Time_. 

One of those occurrences would be enough to put him in a vile temper. Two in one day would try the tolerance of a saint.

Much as she loved him, Sam would never pretend that Malcolm Tucker belonged in that exalted company.

“Yes,” she called before he could yell the inevitable question. “I watched. Honestly Malc, you should’ve come home early and watched it in comfort!”

“Yes, and let the cleaners handle a hundred and fifty fucking calls about the Prime Minister’s interesting views on fuckin’ immigration.” He was still struggling out of his coat when Sam reached the light switch and flipped it, just in time to see droplets of rainwater spraying from his person as he gave himself a violent shake. “Yeah, that’d be good, wouldn’t it? For fuck’s sake, Sam, did you _hear_ the brain-dead prick?”

“I did.” His dark grey hair was plastered against his scalp, rivulets dribbling down his nose. “Would it have been too much of an effort to put your umbrella up? You’re drenched!”

“And it’s blowing a fuckin’ gale, in case you hadn’t noticed.” When she would have helped him out of his coat Malcolm shrugged her off, his frown tightening another notch. “I told him he to send Fatty, or Dan, but oh, no! Fucking politicians with their fuckin’ egos, he had to go and face his fucking public. Twat!”

Sam stepped back, long experience telling her when it was wise to give him his space. “I don’t suppose it’s possible he misunderstood the question?” she suggested, keeping it strictly practical. Some men appreciated a bit of cosseting after a bad day. Hers wasn’t one of them.

“No, but that’s what we’re saying anyway.” Rain had seeped inside his collar, tickling uncomfortably against the side of his neck. “People know Tom’s a tit; maybe this time it’ll actually play to our fucking ADVANTAGE!”

In spite of herself she rocked back on her heels. He never roared in his leisure hours, or certainly never when she was sharing them. “Sorry,” he continued, more quietly. “Shouldn’t take it out on you because our boss belongs in the nearest fuckin’ asylum should I?”

“It’s OK.” And it was, really. Because she better than anyone knew the strain he was under trying to hold Tom’s talentless bunch of no-marks together as a plausible administration. Because he looked so bloody ridiculous with water dripping in a puddle on the laminate floor around him, his sodden hair stuck up in clumps where he’d forced a damp hand through it. Because, no matter how tired and bad-tempered he was, he was Malcolm and she loved him for it.

She took a tentative step forward, still uncertain of her welcome until he reached out and seized her, crushing her hard against his chest. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he growled into her loose hair. Sam chuckled.

“That’s why they need you,” she quipped, lifting her face for his kiss. 

She wasn’t expecting it to be so… fierce. 

One hand at the back of her head, the other groping wildly at her arse, Malcolm plundered her mouth with the desperation of a starving man, urging her up onto her toes to get her closer. Sam grabbed handfuls of his grey suit jacket, meeting him thrust for thrust as his body ground against hers and his tongue launched a determined assault on her tonsils. Excitement flared in her belly, its bright light surging to consume her. He wasn’t like this often, but when he was….

“Jesus, lass!” Panting, wild about the eyes, Malcolm pulled back to stare down at her like a stranger, that unearthly mix of lust and anger glinting dangerously in his eyes that always sent her weak at the knees. God, she loved him like this!

Most often he was careful. Considerate. Even – a word nobody else would dare associate with the Dark Lord of Downing Street – tender. He had to be really close to his tether’s end to lose control so fast, and so completely. 

Sam fought off her mouth’s small upward twitch. One wrong move from her and he’d remember where he was, what she was; he’d go back to being the playful lover, rein his rougher, fiercer self in. No way was she letting that happen!

She let her tongue slide around her swollen lips, careful to hold his stormy stare. A challenge. The one thing Malcolm could never ignore. 

His eyes darkened. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he repeated hoarsely before pulling her back for a second round.

Her blouse hit the floor before she knew what was happening, the lowest pearl button popping clean off beneath his impatient hands. Huffing into his devouring kiss Sam wrenched awkwardly at his shirt, wild for the feel of his pale skin beneath her fingertips. “Bed?” she gasped in the moment he let her up for air. Malcolm answered with a sharp nod.

Items of clothing marked their path up the stairs, the last hitting the deck at the bedroom door before he lifted her bodily and deposited her down on top of the duvet, devouring her with his gaze. Sam shivered to her toes, acutely aware of the moisture gathering between her thighs and the sweet, sticky uncurling of sensation in her lower belly. It was ridiculous – embarrassing – what that man could make her feel with nothing more than that glittering, famished-wolf stare.

Still it meant when he tired of looking in favour of a something more energetic she was more than ready, arching to welcome his ridiculously slight weight, her nails scorching the kind of deep, white trails down his back that won her a lush, satisfied growl that on its own made her wetter than any other man’s half-hour of careful foreplay ever had.

She clutched his shoulders; bit hard on the side of his neck for the sheer joy of hearing his exultant obscenity. Rough fingers thrust through her pubic curls, slick and oily with proof of her readiness. Malcolm needed no further invitation.

“Yeessss!” The word escaped in a prolonged hiss while her body bucked in accommodation of his engorged length. Sam humped against him furiously, dimly conscious of the burn of his blunt fingertips kneading her breast while their teeth scraped and their tongues lashed through a breath-taking succession of violent, reckless kisses. She didn’t care if she couldn’t fucking breathe; didn’t care if he broke every fucking bone in her body and she snapped quite a few in his. She just wanted to feel him like this, hard and wild and _free_ , for ever.

It couldn’t last; he didn’t want it to, and what Malcolm wanted, Malcolm had a habit of getting. His thrusts came harder, faster, fiercer; his grip bruised as she cut ribbons across his shoulders with her nails, her shriek slicing through his climactic shout. Bright lights fired behind her eyelids for a brief, brilliant moment before everything went black and Sam slipped all unwitting into oblivion.

He roused her, who-cared how much later, by releasing himself from her body’s cloying grasp with a rusty groan. “Mmm,” she heard herself mumble eloquently, her limbs clenching of their own accord around him. “Mmmmm. Stay.”

“I’m no’ going far.” Something warm and moist – probably his tongue Sam decided, groggily impressed by her sudden spurt of coherence – skittered across her collarbone. “Got a bit enthusiastic there. Sorry.”

If he’d doused her in ice water he couldn’t have woken her up more efficiently. “Don’t you dare apologise, you ignorant bastard!”

The bed creaked with the violence of his start. “I fucking loved it, OK?” she added more quietly, one hand waving beyond the covers in search of the bedside lamp. By its faint light the marks he had left on her pale skin were clearly visibly – as, Sam noticed with an irrational shock of pride, were the deep gouges she’d cut all over his upper body – and Malcolm couldn’t take his eyes off them. 

“I won’t break. I don’t need to be cosseted. And, strictly between you and me, I’m actually quite partial to a bit of rough now and then.”

It wasn’t often anyone saw Malcolm Tucker stuck for words. “I used to imagine it’d always be like that with you,” she continued dreamily, rubbing a fingertip over one faintly bloodied scar down his arm. “Honestly, it was a miracle nobody complained about the smell around my desk I used to get so wet listening to you roaring and imagining all that fire and brimstone was being aimed at me!”

“Weird lass.” He was intrigued, but determined to play it cool. Sam wanted to shake him.

She could do it psychologically, she decided, shifting onto her hip to fix him with her best doe-eyed stare, the one that always made him fidget like a senior minister confronted by a real, live British voter. “Did you never guess I was fantasizing about you grabbing my by the arm and taking me up against the pantry door, Boss? I spent so much time speculating about how ferocious you’d be in the sack I’m surprised I didn’t end up getting it!”

“Jesus _Christ_ , woman!” Nobody could invoke that name with more venom than her lover, and Sam adored it. “If I’d known that I’d have had you over my fucking desk, week one!”

“Oh, I doubt it.” With a stretch of the neck, Sam was able to plant a playful kiss on the high bridge of his nose. “You’re really far too much of a gentleman for that, but don’t worry: I won’t tell anyone.”

“Yeah, as if they’d fuckin’ believe it.” Secure in the terror of his Westminster reputation Malcolm grinned evilly, tugging her down to snuggle into his chest while he flicked off the feeble light. “Tossers all think I eat small children for breakfast and junior ministers for fucking lunch!”

“Well just remember; there’s a secretary outside your door for elevenses if you’re ever in the mood.”

The body beneath her rippled with repressed amusement. “I’ll bear that in mind,” he promised, spreading her hair across himself like a shimmering extra sheet. From the slightest of inflexions in the words, Sam suspected it wasn’t the only admission of the evening he might be keeping for future reference.

She slipped into sleep with a smile on her face, secure in the knowledge her best-kept secrets were safe in his hands. Her hopes of being bent over the boss’s big desk and rogered within an inch of her life had never been higher.


End file.
